


All The Shattered Ones

by urcool91



Series: Anderson Files [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anderson is actually pretty cool, Anderson is awesome, Angst, As in Carolyn is Mrs. Hudson's sister, Canonical Character Death, Gen, I promise, It's not all that weird, Loooots of hinted ships, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sort of Crossover with Cabin Pressure, and Anderson's wife cheated on him with Douglas, and he knows German, nothing too blatant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urcool91/pseuds/urcool91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All four of them have the same secret. Anderson knows German.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Shattered Ones

Chris Anderson has barely had to worry about German since secondary school. He still recalls certain words, of course, and occasionally used that knowledge to (attempt to) one-up the Freak. The first week after Sherlock Holmes offed himself was a strange mix of triumph and loss. Triumph because Anderson was right, loss because... well, you can't have someone you know off himself without feeling something, no matter how you loathed him when he was alive.

 

In the second week something began to niggle that oft-forgotten part of his brain that knew German. He didn't know quite what it was, no matter how many times he went over the (officially closed) case information. It wasn't until he took the tube instead of a cab one night that it hit him like the train he was riding.

 

Graffiti had been showing up all over, Anderson knew that. It had actually turned into a bit of a war between those who believed in Sherlock Holmes and those who believed Richard Brook. And, for once, Anderson was grateful, despite the hours of overtime it had generated. He was so hopeless at this detective gig he probably wouldn't have ever figured it out if he hadn't seen one of Holmes' many nicknames in that tube car: The Reichenbach Hero.

 

It was like a bolt of lightning. Reichenbach was Rich Brook in German, and Anderson didn't think that it was a coincidence. Even Homes couldn't have named a centuries-old paining and a random actor he later hired, much less made the key a language that had been suggested in the first case they had pinned on Moriarty. Anderson fumbled his phone from his pocket and was halfway through dialing Sally's number when he stopped.

 

Sally thought Richard Brook was just an actor. She had been the first one to suggest that Sherlock Holmes was a fake. No matter how blindingly obvious it was to him at this moment, Anderson knew for a fact that he'd be rubbish at explaining why exactly he didn't think it was just a coincidence or a very clever design by the freak.

 

Anderson dropped his phone back into his pocket. He didn't need to make things worse by telling Sally or anybody else. He'd work it out himself, even though he was no Sherlock, and when he had the whole truth he would tell the papers, his bosses, anyone who would listen that Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty were both real. Most importantly, he would be able to prove it.

 

What had seemed like an excellent plan in the tube, high on the thrill of discovery, held significantly less appeal under the harsh florescent lights of the New Scotland Yard. Anderson stared at the wall of data every search brought up from the Yard's databases. He didn't know where to begin. After all, he was in Forensics, not a DI. He processed hints found on crime scenes into hard evidence, he didn't make the actual hypotheses. They hadn't exactly done Holmes any favors either. Anderson had become so used to finding his prints on crime scenes that he'd automatically disregarded them, so he couldn't even honestly say that he'd never found the Freak's prints there.

 

"Try it in the first couple months." Anderson jumped and quickly clicked to his work tab.

 

"S- Sally," he blurted out. "I mean, Inspector Donovan."

 

"You should relax a bit, Chris," said Sally. "I won't bite your head off for being on the databases."

 

"Right," said Anderson. "Right, sorry."

 

"Oh, and Anderson, would you meet me in the press room during our lunch break?" Sally said casually. Anderson tensed.

 

"W- Why?" God, she was scary, way scarier than the Freak had ever been.

 

"The Doolittle case. It's important."

 

"But I'm not on the Doolittle-"

 

"Shut up." Anderson did. "No, I am only going to say this once. Meet me in the press room with the results of that search you were doing from the first few months and the Doolittle case." Anderson's breath caught in his throat. He remembered the Doolittle case now. I had been shortly after the Pool Incident, during a short period when the Freak hadn't shown at any crime scenes. Anderson had processed the scene right before Holmes had walked in and snapped at him for mucking up the evidence.

 

The important thing was that the case had been after Moriarty and there were none of Holmes' prints to be found. None of Brook's either, for that matter, but it was a start, and Anderson would take all that he could get.

 

Lunch came. Anderson stood nervously outside the press room, the requested printouts clutched to his chest. He jumped and almost dropped them when Sally whispered in his ear.

 

"God, don't do that!" he said.

 

"You can go inside the room, you know," said Sally. "It's not secret or anything."

 

"Fine," said Anderson. "Right, let's just get this done quickly."

 

"As you wish," said Sally, opening the press room door. Anderson let out a huff of laughter.

 

" _The Princess Bride_? Really?"

 

"Better than your science fiction and action movies, Chris. You start sounding like the Freak when you quote Spock." Sally's smile fell from her face and she pushed a curl behind her ear out of habit.

 

"Why did you want to see me, Inspector?" said Anderson. Sally sighed.

 

"Not here, Chris, please. I'm not talking to you as Inspector Donovan." She looked somewhere over his left shoulder and swallowed. "I'm coming to you because I- I made a mistake. I saw you looking at the files for the old Holmes cases, so I think you suspect as well as I-"

 

"I more than suspect, I'm positive," said Anderson. "Reichenbach is Rich Brook in German. Whatever else Holmes might have been, he wasn't a painter and he  _definitely_  wasn't a father." Anderson shivered a little at the thought. "No, somehow he was innocent. An insufferable git, maybe, but that's still not a crime to arrest him for." Sally was gaping at him. "What?"

  
_"_ Chris, you are a genius," she stated. Anderson shrugged.

  
_"_ I studied German for three years back in secondary school," he said.

"But do you realize what this means? I means that Greg can be promoted back up to DI. I'll probably be demoted, of course, but-"

"Sally, we can't tell anyone," said Anderson, shaking his head.

"What do you mean? Of course we have to, to clear the Freak's name if nothing else."

"We're the ones who accused him in the first place. Can you imagine haw that would look, Sal, with the amount of evidence we have right now? We'd be laughed out of the courtroom."

 

"If all you're concerned about is you damn pride, Chris-"

 

"No, I'm not. That's the last thing I'm concerned about. But if we bring it up without enough evidence, they'll never listen to us when we bring it up later with more evidence. Then Holmes will never be cleared."

 

"Fine," said Sally, "but let's tell Greg at least."

 

"No way!"

 

"He deserves to know, Chris." Anderson sighed.

 

"Fine, but I'm not telling him," he said. "I'm no kamikaze."

 

"You were the one who figured out Reichenbach."

 

"No doing it."

 

"Come on, I can't go in there by myself. He'll bite my head off."

 

"Think he'll do any less to me? No, I'd rather cut our losses."

 

"Chris! He deserves to-"

 

"Yeah, I know." Anderson sighed. "Good Lord do I know, and I feel awful about getting him demoted like that. But... all right, maybe this part is just my pride speaking, but I don't see how telling him will do him any good."

 

"We should at least admit we were wrong," said Sally.

 

"Look, maybe we should, but I won't. He'll find out soon enough. After all, we are going to prove us wrong and make it official, aren't we?" Sally bit her bottom lip, sucking it a little in thought. "Think of it like a present." Sally's face split into a rueful smile and she shook her head.

 

"God, Chris, when you're not pissed off, you can be dangerously adorable." She ran a hand through her hair. "Fine, I'll do it your way. I expect you to take responsibility if this backfires, though."

 

"Why of course,  _Inspector_ Donovan," said Anderson. "I wouldn't dream of pinning anything on you."

 

"Uh-huh," said Sally, raising an eyebrow. Anderson laughed.

 

"Well, maybe I  _considered_ the possibility, but you know I'd never really do it. If I did, you'd probably rip me limb from limb." Sally snorted.

 

"Correction- I'd try to rip you limb from limb and end up shagging you on a couch."

 

"That is the way it usually turns out," said Anderson. Sally sighed.

 

"Chris, tomorrow night, if you're not too busy-"

 

"No. I said never again, Sally, and I meant it."

 

"You don't really love that old cow."

 

"No, I don't."

 

"And she started it with that pilot from Fitton." It was Anderson's turn to sigh.

 

"I know, but that doesn't mean I have any right to be unfaithful." Anderson checked his watch. "Lunch is over. We'd better get back or people might talk."

 

"They already do little else." Sally drew herself up, and instantly she became the self-assured, masterful Detective Inspector Donovan again. "Can you ask for the results from the morgue at Bart's for Holmes and Brook for me? I'd do it myself, but the Winters case has got me booked."

 

"Of course," said Anderson. "I'll ask for that one girl... Dr. Hooper? She and Holmes were close, maybe she knows something we haven't got yet."

 

As it turned out, Anderson wasn't able to get to the morgue until almost a week later. First there was the Winters case (which they eventually explained away as a suicide even though it was obviously a murder), then a tricky triple homicide of a couple of tourists' children, then his wife had to come back into town and he'd had to try to take her out to dinner without being snide or passive-aggressive. He  _had_ gotten her a new pink phone case, but he'd never gotten to tell her about the Pink Lady murder, so no one would get it but him and Sally.

 

Point is, he was busy, and it was pure chance that he was able to get to the morgue at all. It was pouring rain and seven in the evening when he raced to Bart's for the results of the triple homicide autopsies. Sally thought she had a breakthrough, something about the angle of the gunshots. His only comment as he'd gone off had been that she was turning into the Freak. It was well worth the swipe he'd had to duck.

 

"The autopsies! Triple homicide!" he said, pushing past the IT boy near the doors. A mousy woman looked up from the body she was examining.

 

"Oh! The homicide!" she squeaked, then recovered herself. "Just give me a moment to stitch his one up and I'll be right with you." Anderson circled around her, vibrating with nervous energy. Suddenly he caught a glimpse of her name badge and swooped down.

 

"Dr. Hooper," he said. She bit her bottom lip.

 

"Just a mo-" Anderson grabbed her arm and she jerked away with a gasp.

 

"Sorry," he said. "That was out of line."

 

"Oh, no, it's fine. Just, you know, busy." She laughed nervously.

 

"Yeah. Sorry. I know you must be busy." God, this was awkward. "I just have a very important question only you can answer." She nodded, still looking as though she might scamper off any moment. "Is there anything you can tell me about Sherlock Holmes?" Instantly Dr. Hooper's jaw set and her eyes sparkled with steel. Anderson blinked and had to fight the instinct to run away as fast as he could. Why did he always seem to meet the scariest women?

 

"What do you want to do, discredit him further?" she said icily. "The police have done him enough favors, surely you can stop breaking him down now that he'd dead?"

 

"I'm not asking this as a policeman," said Anderson. "I'm asking this as someone who knew him when he was alive and wants to help clear his name, even if he is dead now."

 

"He never mentioned you." Anderson almost winced.

 

"We weren't friends. You could probably say we were enemies." God, why was this so hard? "You know the way he was sometimes. He'd call me an idiot, I'd call him a freak." Confession time. "I know that I probably could have been more... mature about it, and I'll always regret that I was one of the people who accused him. This is me trying to fix it, at least a little." To his surprise Dr. Hooper's face softened. 

 

"Oh, God, do I know," she said. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. But I do, understand I mean. And I think, even if you didn't do very well then, that you're acting mature now. So that's, um, good, I guess."

 

"Do you know anything, anything at all you haven't told the police?" Anderson gave his best charming smile, even though he had to admit he was too funny-looking to be charming. "It would really be a great help."

 

"Um, yes, of course. Not that I'd deliberately hide anything from the police, it's just... they didn't think I was important. Not that I am, but, you know, he did talk to me... sometimes."

 

"When?"

 

"Right before he went up there, you know, to..."

 

"Yes?" Anderson's heart was racing; he felt as though he was perilously close to a truth that would either make him victorious or break him down utterly. Perhaps it would do both at the same time.

 

"But he said, he told me..." She hesitated.

 

"I won't tell."

 

"Good. He told me... he said that he might be going to his death, but that if he died, he'd be taking Moriarty with him. And he said... I was to go up after, if he died, and get his phone, and give it to John." The truth was becoming dimly apparent in Anderson's slow, stupid mind.

 

"And where is his phone now?"

 

"With John, of course." Anderson could have kissed her. This, he was certain, was the evidence they needed to clear Holmes. He was smart (fine,  _genius_ ), and Anderson knew that the Freak wouldn't give an order like that without a reason.

 

Anderson texted Sally (her gunshot angles would have to wait) and caught a cab, paying the burly man who drove it extra to break the speed limit. When they arrived at Baker Street he jumped out and pounded on the door.

 

"Just a minute!" There was a soft scuffling inside and the door opened to reveal an old lady. "Is your name John Watson?"

 

"No," said Anderson. "I'm-"

 

"Then Martha won't be seeing you. Goodbye." The woman began to shut the door, but Anderson managed to wedge his shoulder in.

 

"Look, Ms..."

 

"Carolyn is fine. Now, if you don't mind-"

 

"I'm trying to get in to see John Watson." Carolyn stopped pressing quite so hard against the door.

 

"He isn't here," she said, before giving the door such a slam that Anderson felt fortunate it didn't break bone.

 

"Carolyn?" said a voice from the back of the house. "Who's at the door?"

 

"Some dolt who's got his shoulder in," shouted Carolyn back. "Don't worry about it, Martha, I'll take care of this one." She slammed the door on him again and Anderson cursed under his breath. "Language."

 

"Look," said Anderson, "at least let me talk to the landlady."

 

"Martha Hudson is no longer renting out flats."

 

"I don't want a flat, you berk." Carolyn scowled.

 

"Correction: I am the CEO of a reputable airline and Martha's older, less sweet sister. And if you don't want a flat, why-ever would you want to talk to the to the landlady?" 

 

"Because I am trying to locate John Watson and this is his last known address."

 

"Carolyn, stop it." The door released its hold on Anderson's abused shoulder and creaked open to reveal the masterful Carolyn and a faint, wispy woman who Anderson vaguely recognized as the landlady from the drugs bust. "Is John in trouble?" she said, looking as though the least thing could make her bright eyes overflow.

 

"Not at all," said Anderson, rubbing the forming bruise. "At least, not so far as I know. It's just that I think he has a key piece of evidence-"

 

"This is about S- Sherlock, isn't it?" said Mrs. Hudson.

 

"Yes," said Anderson, "it is."

 

"All right, out!" said Carolyn, forcing Anderson's back against the door. Her sister grasped her wrist.

 

"Let him speak, the poor dear," she said. "I'll make some tea."

 

"No, I'll do it," Carolyn interrupted, sending Anderson a glare that did not bode well for his continued existence as she exited the hallway. For a moment he and Mrs. Hudson stood in awkward silence. Then Anderson cleared his throat.

 

"I suppose I should start off by saying that I'm sorry," he began awkwardly.

 

"Oh, I'm sure it wasn't you, dear," said Mrs. Hudson, sniffling a little. 

 

"That's just it, it was my fault, or at least partly my fault." Anderson looked down, afraid of what he might see in her eyes. He was only beginning to realize that Holmes' death had affected people, and that he would have to ask for their forgiveness or at least their acceptance. It was humbling, the realization that someone he'd always disregarded as a freak had more people crying over his death than Anderson probably would. "If it hadn't been for me and Sally," he continued, "he'd never have had to run from arrest. We were stupid and believed Moriarty's lies and bait, we believed in Richard Brook instead of the genius we'd seen with our own eyes. And because of us, he decided to- to fall, for whatever reason."

 

"I'm sure he had his reasons, dear, he always did." Mrs. Hudson took a deep breath. "Now, I suppose you have a reason to be here beyond apologizing to a silly old lady." Anderson smiled ruefully.

 

"Actually, I was looking for Doctor Watson," he said. Mrs. Hudson looked as though she was going to cry again.

 

"He's gone away, the poor dear," she said. "I understand, of course I do. It's been just awful for him. But it does seem so... quiet and lonely up there now."

 

"Do you know where his new flat is?" said Anderson.

 

"No... no, I don't. But if you want to see him, he'll be coming around for tea tomorrow. Now, I'll go see what Carolyn's got up to..."

 

Anderson was unable to refuse the tea and biscuits that Mrs. Hudson and her sister pressed on him. And, though it  _was_ quite interesting to hear the two's stories about what they had done with the odder winnings from their respective divorces, he was quite glad to leave a half hour later. He hadn't expected it to be that hard to apologize and see exactly what Holmes' death had done. And he'd have to go back the next day! Anderson groaned and rested his forehead against the cool cab window. Maybe he'd let Sally take this one on, but being a DI generated a monster of a workload for her, and he wasn't selfish enough to insist on her doing something that he didn't want to do.

 

When he got back to the Yard, he collapsed at his desk and closed his eyes. When he opened them he saw Sally above him, thin-lipped.

 

"We have to tell Greg," she said without preamble. Anderson blinked.

 

"I thought we agreed to-"

 

"You don't understand. We need to tell him  _now._ "

 

"What happened?" Sally bit her bottom lip. "God damn it, Sally, what's going on?"

 

"He's going to leave!" she blurted out. "Happy now? He's going to become a sergeant God-knows-where and he'll never know-" She ran a hand through her hair, making it stand on end. "I'll never be able to tell him how sorry I am, how I don't deserve this position and he does, how I was wrong to suspect the Fr- Holmes-"

 

"Look, Sally, calm down," said Anderson. "I understand." She gasped for air.

 

"So you'll help me tell him?" Anderson grimaced.

 

"I can't seem to do anything else," he said. Sally smiled at him, her whole face lighting up at his acceptance.

 

"Thank you, Chris," she said, then she grabbed his arm and pulled him from his chair. "Come on. Greg's still in." Anderson groaned.

 

"Can't we-"

 

" _No._ Now, before I lose my nerve." Anderson allowed himself to be pulled toward the break room. The door was propped open, and he could see Greg Lestrade sitting at the rickety table, head in his hands, laptop open before him. Anderson blinked. He hadn't expected Greg, who even at his most frazzled seemed cool and capable, to ever seem so fragile. Sally was most definitely right. They had to tell him, not just before he left, but before he got any less like Detective Inspector Lestrade and any more like the old, broken man in front of them.

 

"Sir," said Sally. Greg's head snapped up and instantly the cold, professional mask was back on.

 

"Donovan-" He blinked. "Inspector Donovan, what are you doing here?" He didn't need to voice his other, obvious question: why are you calling me sir?

 

"We needed to talk with you," she said, crossing the room and plopping down across from Greg. Anderson slipped in behind her, quietly closed the door, and sat cross-legged on the floor when a quick scan showed that there was nowhere else to sit. Greg looked from one of them to the other, a bit baffled. Anderson didn't blame him.

 

"What do you two want?" said Greg, eyeing Donovan warily.

 

"We want to discuss the contents of a recent case with you," said Donovan. Greg opened his mouth.

 

"We think that here's been a very serious error, and we want to discuss it with you," Anderson supplied.

 

"Well... all right..." Greg wasn't any less confused, but the wariness was gone. Anderson would count that as a victory. Sally leaned forward.

 

"What is your personal opinion on the whole Holmes diabolical?" she said. Greg flinched back as though she had hit him.

 

"What the hell are you playing at?" he said raggedly. "Holmes is dead. Case closed."

 

"Holmes is considered a criminal. We think that's wrong," said Sally.

 

"Why would you? You got the position you've always wanted, Anderson is head of his department. Seems like things have gone just peachy for you two."

 

"Peachy sometimes isn't right or just," said Sally. "And just because something went right for us doesn't make it any less unjust to- to you."

 

"Or to John or to his landlady," said Anderson. "Sally and I have come to accept the possibility of us being wrong about Holmes, and we are doing everything in our power to clear his name." Greg looked from one to the other.

 

"You're trying to trick me," he said. "Look, I'm leaving, all right? You don't have to worry about my stupidity or whatever it is you're-"

 

"Greg, we're trying to clear his name! Don't leave!" said Sally, desperate.

 

"Fine. Let's say I believe you, which I don't, by the way. What kind of evidence would convince you two?"

 

"Well, you see, I was thinking it over, and, er-"

 

"Reichenbach," said Anderson, cutting across her. "At least, that's what convinced me." Greg stared at him.

 

"Sherlock finding a painting convinced you that he was for real," he said slowly.

 

"No!" said Anderson. "At least, that's not the way it went in my mind."

 

"Then, please, explain." Anderson took a deep breath.

 

"Reichenbach means Rich Brook in German," he said. Greg blinked and gaped at him. "And so, since Holmes couldn't have possibly been a centuries old painter or a certain actor's father, it follows that Richard Brook was a fake."

 

"Moriarty," whispered Greg. Sally nodded.

 

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "Please don't leave."

 

"I'm not sure I can't," said Greg. "I've already handed in the papers and-"

 

"But how'll they know how to find you when we get the last bit of evidence and break the news?" Anderson burst out. Greg flinched back again then stood, his chair crashing to the ground.

 

"Evidence? What evidence?" he said. Anderson couldn't help but fell a little proud as Sally and Greg looked to him (yes,  _him_ ) as though he was an important member of their little conspiracy.

 

"Holmes' mobile," he said. "Doctor Hooper retrieved it from the roof of St. Bart's per his instructions and gave it to Doctor Watson." Slowly Greg's face broke into a wide grin.

 

"Anderson, you are  _brilliant_!" he said. Anderson shrugged but couldn't help the small smile that snuck onto his face. "No, seriously, I don't think even Sherlock Homes could have found that out."

 

"Well, I'm sure it wouldn't have occurred to him to just ask the morgue lady," said Anderson. "Other than that, I'm sure that he would have gotten this far easily and in less time."

 

"Yeah, but we don't have the- Holmes," Sally corrected herself. "We have you, dinosaur brain, and that's apparently good enough." Anderson laughed.

 

"You don't give yourself enough credit," he said. "After all, I'd never have talked to Dr. Hooper if you hadn't suggested it." Greg cleared his throat.

 

"This is great and all," he said, "but if Moriarty was real, we have a problem. Why would Sherlock kill himself?"

 

"Hopefully whatever's on his mobile will answer that," said Anderson. Sally nodded.

 

"All right," said Greg. "I'll text John and arrange a meeting."

 

"Actually, I already did that," said Anderson. "Or, more accurately, I was invited to one. Mrs. Hudson and her sister Carolyn invited me to the tea they're having with Dr. Watson tomorrow."

 

"Perfect," said Greg. "I'll go, since John actually somewhat trusts me, and Anderson should too, since Mrs. Hudson is expecting him. Donovan-"

 

"I'm going." Sally glared at the two men as though daring them to refuse her.

 

"Look, Donovan, shouldn't you sit this one out?" said Greg. Anderson privately wondered if he was suicidal. "The fewer people the better on this one, I'd say-"

 

"No!" said Sally. "I need- I mean, I want to apologize."

 

"I've already done that for us both to Mrs. Hudson," said Anderson.

 

"I mean to John," said Sally. "Please, I just want him to know how stupid I know I am and how sorry I am. Besides," she added, "shouldn't we all go, since we're the only ones who believe in Sherlock here."

 

"You do realize he might punch you?" said Greg. Sally shrugged.

 

"So? Either I'm condemned by him or condemned by myself. Since he already hates me, I'd rather minimize the number who do." Greg blinked.

 

"Wow," he said after a moment. "That is actually the most moral and self-sacrificing thing I have ever heard you say."

 

"Well, there's a first time for everything," said Sally morosely. Anderson privately agreed.

 

The next day was a Saturday. Anderson spent the morning watching reruns of American sitcoms and eating Pocky. Around three his doorbell rang. Sally and Greg were there with a cab, and Anderson got in with all the enthusiasm of a man going up to a guillotine.

 

"You all right, Chris?" said Sally. "You look pale."

 

"I'm fine," said Anderson automatically. "Let's do this." The rest of the cab ride was spent in nervous silence. They got out and Sally paid the driver ("I have the largest salary at the moment, Chris, honestly!"). Anderson watched the cab drive away then turned to stare at the bronze numbers that spelled out "221b." He gulped then tapped the doorknocker sharply.

 

"Oh, you're here!" said Mrs. Hudson as she opened the door. "I realized just after you left last night that I didn't get your name. Hello, Detective Inspector. Come in, all of you."

 

"All right," said Anderson, stepping in to avoid the awkward silence as Sally and Greg tried to figure out who she'd greeted. "I'm Chris Anderson. The scary woman behind me is DI Sally Donovan. I think you've already met Greg..."

 

"Inspector Lestrade!" squealed Mrs. Hudson.

 

"Martha, please, do try not to give them diabetes," said Carolyn as she entered the hallway. She caught sight of Anderson. "Oh, its you again. How's the shoulder?"

 

"Very sore, thank you," said Anderson. "You didn't have to slam it that hard." Carolyn shrugged.

 

"You called me a berk."

 

"You were being a berk."

 

"Only I am allowed to call people berks."

 

"All  _right_ ," said Greg, holding up his hands. "You two berks can chat later. Mrs. Hudson, when will John be arriving?"

 

"Oh, he'll be here any minute, Inspector."

 

"Right," said Greg, rubbing his temples. "Right. Donovan, Anderson, and I will go into 221a. Mrs. Hudson, just get John in and make sure he doesn't run. We'll do the rest."

 

"Be sure not to startle John too much, he is such a dear," said Mrs. Hudson. "Now inside, quickly. Carolyn, could you put the kettle on and get them something to eat?"

 

"Fine, Martha," Carolyn sighed, leading them into the comfortable, homey atmosphere of 221a. They sat awkwardly on the light pink couch and watch Mrs. Hudson's cat-shaped clock's tail swing back and forth, counting the seconds. The tap of the doorknocker sounded like a gunshot in the silence, and all three of them simultaneously flinched.

 

"... nice of you to invite me, Mrs. Hudson," John was saying as Mrs. Hudson opened the door with a squeak.

 

"Oh, it's nothing, dear. After all, it does get awful quiet around here, even if Carolyn and Arthur are-"

 

"Mrs. Hudson, what the hell are they doing here?" John shouted, and Anderson got his first look at Dr. John Watson since Sherlock's suicide. He was physically showing the strain. John's face was pale with massive dark stains under his eyes. Anderson could see that he had lost maybe two stone, and his hair was longer than its customary cut. Worst of all were the cane and the tremor in John's right hand, quickly and skillfully hid.

 

"Oh, Chris came over yesterday to ask after you, the dear," said Mrs. Hudson. "He came with Sally and Greg. It sounds rather important." 

 

"Look, I don't give a damn what you have to say..." John trailed off. "Who's Chris?" Anderson tentatively raised his hand. "Anderson? Why would you-"

 

"Reichenbach," he said. John blinked and clutched his cane tighter.

 

"This is about Sherlock, then."

 

"You might want to sit down, John," said Greg. "This'll take a while." John sat in an armchair across from them that was adorned with a lacy throw pillow.

 

"I believe in him," he said. "You can't make me think that he wasn't real."

 

"We're not trying to," said Greg. John sighed.

 

"Then what are you here for?" Greg and Anderson looked at Sally, who was squashed between them. She muttered something inaudible.

 

"I don't think John quite caught that," said Anderson.

 

"Shut up, Chris, you're not helping," said Sally, glaring at him. She turned back to John. "I said that I'm sorry." The silence was only broken when the kettle began to whistle on Mrs. Hudson's stove.

 

"What?" said John. He had grown even more pale and was clutching the arms of the chair like a lifeline. 

 

"I'm sorry," said Sally again. "Chris and I both are. We were idiots for believing Moriarty's lies instead of the genius we'd seen so many times. I wish I could-" Her voice cracked. "I'm sorry." She paused. "Please forgive me." John was silent for a seemingly endless moment. Anderson could hardly believe it, but the soldier seemed to be fighting back tears.

 

"I can't," he finally choked out. The tears overflowed and he looked away so he wouldn't have to meet their eyes. Anderson felt a knife twist in his gut. "I'm sorry, I- I can't do this."

 

"John..." said Greg.

 

"I'm sorry, Greg."

 

"No need," said Anderson. "Right, now on to business." John looked up.

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Reichenbach," said Greg. "Anderson noticed it."

 

"Noticed what?"

 

"Reichenbach is Rich Brook in German," Anderson said, struggling not to sound too proud of himself. John's mouth dropped open.

 

"Well," he said. "I shouldn't have trusted Sherlock's assessment of you." Anderson could feel the back of his neck start burning.

 

"It was just a couple of years of German in secondary school," he muttered. "Honestly, anyone with even the least knowledge of the language could have-"

 

"Maybe, but you were the one who had that knowledge." John ran a hand through his shaggy hair, still looking old and worn but with a purpose in his eyes that had been missing before. "Well, this gets us somewhere, at least. You could have told me you were all trying to clear him, Greg."

 

"I actually only found out yesterday," said Greg with an embarrassed laugh. "It was these two who figured it all out." John's surprise was poorly hidden.

 

"Really? But-" He cleared his throat. "Er, thank you. Thank you both." Sally was smiling softly, and Anderson couldn't help but do the same. It wasn't forgiveness, but it was the next best thing. "But why have you come to see me?" The three of them glanced at each other and Greg nodded. Sally took a deep breath.

 

"You have his phone," she said, "and we think there's the last piece of evidence we need to clear his name on it." John's breath caught.

 

"Oh, God," he said.

 

"John, are you all right?" said Greg.

 

"I didn't even think... But it just seemed wrong somehow, even if he did always use mine. But if it clears his name..."

 

"Where is it?" said Sally. "Your flat?" John shook his head and pulled a mobile from his coat pocket, blushing slightly.

 

"I've been carrying it since Molly gave it to me," he said. "Haven't turned it on, of course, just... it make it feel like he's still here. Sorry, its stupid. You didn't need to know that."

 

"I don't think its stupid," said Anderson impulsively. John smiled at him awkwardly and handed him the phone. Anderson turned it on and began to flick through the files within. Suddenly he stopped.

 

"What is it?" said Sally.

 

"It's a voice recording," he said, "from about the time of his death." He handed it to Sally. She barely glanced at it before handing it to Greg. He stared at it a long while with a look of trepidation on his face then passed it to John, who cradled the mobile as one might a hurt child.

 

"Well," said Greg, "let's hear it, then." John nodded. Anderson held his breath as the soldier pressed "Play." 


End file.
